


Secrets and Lies

by A S Lawrence (phoebesmum)



Category: Dead Poet's Society (1989)
Genre: Angst, Boarding School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-18
Updated: 2009-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/A%20S%20Lawrence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Todd goes to the Dead Poets' cave to be alone, but finds unexpected company - and fulfils a hidden desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets and Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Written December 2005.

There are so many rules here at Welton. Tens of them, dozens; scores, maybe. Todd's never counted. Some of them are reasonable enough, benign even, obviously intended to ensure the pupils' safety or maintain discipline; others are ludicrous, so baroque that they must have been dreamed up by some long-dead petty dictator, drunk with his own power. Some are simply there to be ignored and flouted at will. Case in point: _No talking after lights out,_ which is little better than a joke. _Lights out _signals the production of flashlights from beneath mattresses (all the better for the reading of forbidden comic books, _Playboy_ for those with more sophisticated aspirations), flurried whispers and giggles, stories, rumours, jokes and lies; sometimes, in a burst of ill-advised confidence, the exchange of close-guarded secrets. Perhaps the boys think that the darkness will swallow those secrets, keep them as safe as if they'd never been told. But they're wrong.

 

Todd understands this. Todd has a secret of his own: huge and hurtful and terrifying. But Todd knows better than to tell.

 

Neil, now; if ever there was a man you really could trust with a secret, a friend in whom you could confide, Neil would be that man. But Neil has just won the role of Puck in a local play (it'll be terrible, Todd knows; he's seen plenty of little theatre productions, and he knows the standard. But this, too, he'll never say, if only out of kindness), and Neil is brimming over with the thrill of this, so overwhelmed by the sudden wealth of new possibilities stretching out in front of him that he hasn't the capacity to take in one single thing more.

 

He's laughing now, because, technically, he's playing a fairy, and even if his dad could have been reconciled to acting in general, he would never have been able to cope with _that_.

 

"But Dad thinks all actors are queer, anyway," he tells Todd, his voice stifled, breathless. "Except maybe John Wayne. And Audie Murphy."

 

Todd tries to keep his own voice steady. "I never heard of any queer actors?" he says, and manages (he thinks) not to make the question sound too eager. It's not as if he's questing about for rôle models. Absolutely not.

 

Neil waves it away with a careless, "Oh, there's a few out there," and, though Todd would have liked to have heard more, Neil has moved on to something else now, babbling away about the play and the cast and what the director had said to him and how the costumes are pretty basic but they're on a tight budget and besides, Shakespeare's players managed without costumes (which sends uncalled-for images into Todd's head until he works it through and comes to what he decides must be the right conclusion), and how cute Ginny Danburry is and how Knox must be crazy not to notice her, and, and, and.

 

Todd listens without really hearing to the steady flow of Neil's voice as he rattles on about people Todd doesn't know and experiences he hasn't shared, until eventually, soothed or bored or numbed, he drifts without knowing it into sleep.

 

***

 

There are rules to the Dead Poets Society. Unwritten, naturally – after all, Rule #1 is its secrecy – but perfectly, tacitly, understood. It's not, precisely, a rule that no-one goes out to the caves except for meetings. It's just common sense. Go there too often and sooner or later it's bound to draw attention. In any case, Welton doesn't leave the boys much time to call their own. Even weekends are strictly timetabled: prep, sports, clubs, chaperoned outings, church. But there are times Todd needs to be alone and, quiet as he is, he's become quite the master of the art of slipping away unnoticed.

 

He doesn't go straight to the caves. He sets out in the other direction, lets himself be seen on the road to town (and yes, he has a pass; he takes care to show it to anyone who asks). Then he cuts through the woods, makes a loop, circles back on himself, consults map and compass, and soon his feet are treading the familiar path.

 

There had been a tiny speck of hope inside him – foolish, ridiculous; he'd barely acknowledged it, never fanned it – and that spark had died last night. He needs some time, now, to himself, to mourn it; to acknowledge its passing, and give it a decent burial.

 

He finds the entrance to the right cave, pushes through branches and vines, ducks his head and dives inside.

 

Where there's light: a sudden movement, the flash of a white, startled face upturned to his, and then a muffled but sickening crack as Knox bolts so suddenly upright that his head impacts with the low ceiling.

 

Todd has already begun an apology, but it dies half-spoken as he stands and listens to Knox cursing and wonders at the flow and variety of his vocabulary. He's never really paid that much attention to Knox; the other boy's always seemed to be on the fringe of the Dead Poets, not at its core, his mind and attention permanently at least part-distracted. Usually by thoughts of …

 

Todd notices the white blur of paper spilled across the floor, fallen from Knox's lap, and, because it's universally understood that it's okay to take sly, gentle digs at Knox and his obsession with his townie _inamorata,_ he says, "Are you writing? More poems for Chris?"

 

Knox stops rubbing his head; he stands a little too still, and says nothing for a moment. Then, "No," he mutters, "Not exactly," and he moves to scoop up the paper. Then he says, "Whoa …" and straightens again, puts a hand against the rock wall and stands, eyes closed. Todd is contrite; he bends himself to pick up the papers and is surprised when Knox says, "No – don't – " and by the urgency in Knox's voice. Haven't they all heard his poetry before? Don't they all know the worst of it? He glances at the paper; the scribbling, in Knox's spidery handwriting and the wavering light of his storm lantern, is almost indecipherable, but he catches a few words:

 

_ Aware, in peripheral vision_

_Distant; forbidden_

_Watching, only, touching: never _

 

\- and then a few scratched out lines, some more rude words (Todd thinks these are indicative of Knox's state of mind, not a part of the poem itself), and an entire line of exclamation marks, all of which he takes as an indication that the work in progress isn't going well. He looks up and meets Knox's eyes, his rueful grin.

 

"It turns out there's no way I can finish that line and not say 'forever'," Knox says, and Todd can tell that it's an effort to him to keep his voice light. "And I was really trying to knock off the rhyming couplets before someone got badly hurt."

 

Todd shrugs, and hands back the paper. He says nothing, although he's longing to ask – if this isn't 'To Chris', then … to whom? But he has no idea how to phrase that question. "I should go," he murmurs, and turns back toward the entrance.

 

"No," Knox says, and now he just sounds tired. "Don't. You needn't – I was, I'm not going to …" He seems to be having a lot of trouble finishing a simple sentence; Todd sympathises. He's had that problem all his life. Knox puts out his hand, reaching, Todd supposes, for his arm, his sleeve, to keep him from going, but it's Todd's own hand that he touches. Knox's fingers are cold, but that isn't why Todd shivers. He's looking up into Knox's face; in the flickering light it's all planes and angles, the adolescent gawkiness stripped away to reveal the man that Knox will become, and Todd finds that he can't stop staring. And Knox is gazing back at him in such a way that Todd, if he could find room to think, might wonder what it is that the lamplight reveals in himself. And their hands are still touching; it doesn't seem to occur to either of them to break the contact.

 

Someone has to say something eventually. It surprises Todd when it's him; he's seldom the one to instigate conversation, but he feels that if the silence stretches on for one moment longer then something will happen, one of them will do something, something rash and stupid that will change their lives forever, ruin them. He can't think of anything that isn't impossibly trite. What he eventually manages to choke out is, "It's c-cold in here," and he somehow manages to free his hand and pull away from Knox, sink down into a crouch against the wall and huddle his jacket around his shoulders with an exaggerated shiver. He hopes that Knox didn't notice the stammer.

 

Knox watches him for a moment, his eyes big and dark; Todd dare not meet them. Then he shrugs. "It's a cave, it's winter," is all he says. "We could light a fire, but I was never much of a Boy Scout." He settles back down into his own uncomfortable-looking seat, touches his hand to his head, wincing slightly, sighs. "So. At least if my poetry gets any lousier, I can blame it on the concussion."

 

"I d-didn't think it was lousy," Todd says softly. "I – I mean – I only saw a couple of words, but I thought – I thought it was … different. Not like the stuff you read out in class, I mean."

 

A strange little smile curves Knox's mouth (and Todd deliberately averts his eyes; he's never really noticed Knox's mouth before, the odd, mismatched quirk of it, and now he knows he'll never _not _see it, never forget it). "I guess not," he says, and then, randomly, as if he wants to turn the conversation deliberately away from the topic, "How come you're here, Todd? You writing poetry now, too?"

 

"I – " Todd begins, but Knox is still speaking.

 

"God knows, you couldn't do any worse than me." He reaches down a hand and scoops up the paper that's still scattered by his side, crumples it into a ball and tosses it against the opposite wall. It rebounds, vanishes into the dark, and he sighs. "Shit. Now I'm going to have to find that before someone else does. Maybe I _should _have tried making a fire."

 

"You shouldn't burn it," Todd says, and he says it so definitely that he startles even himself. And certainly Knox, who turns his head and stares at him. "It's – it's a part of you. If it's how you feel – it doesn’t matter if it's bad. It's saying it that matters. You – you learn how, the more you do it. And then you look back, and you see what you did, and you learn … you learn some more." He's not sure where this came from; is it something Mr Keating had told them? He doesn't think so. He's committed every word their Captain's ever said to them to memory, run them over and over in his head. They must be his own words, then, and he's amazed all over again at how firm he sounds – he, who seldom raises his voice above a whisper, who's never dared express an opinion in his life. He knows he's blushing, and is glad for the dimness of the light. He pushes himself upright again, hoping to avoid any further discussion. "You stay there. I'll get it. I – I won't - !" (because Knox shows signs of scrambling to his feet, has made a sound that might be a protest) "I won't read it!" He dives into the shadows, scrabbles about in a dark corner, finally emerges, holding the balled-up paper aloft in triumph. He crosses to Knox, drops it into his lap, and Knox smiles up at him. (It's a smile to break hearts. But no; Todd doesn't think that. No.)

 

"Thanks," he says, and stuffs the paper into his pocket. Then, "You never did say why you came out here - ?"

 

Todd shrugs. "Just needed some time alone. You c-can't – you can't hear yourself think, at school. You know?"

 

"Yeah," Knox says, on an exhale; he drops his head back – carefully – and rests it against the wall. "You're not supposed to think that way. They think you're a freak if you want to be alone. But, god, sometimes I just – I just think I'll go crazy if I don't get away. You don't want to _talk,_ all the damn time, you know?" Then he laughs. "_You _know. You never talk at all, Todd – really, do you?"

 

Todd says nothing, which, he supposes, proves Knox's point. They sit there in silence for a while, but it's a comfortable sort of silence; familiar, like an old shirt, washed to perfect softness. If Todd were to analyse it, he might find that strange. He doesn't make friends easily. Neil wouldn't allow him _not _to become a friend, but with the other Dead Poets he's always felt that they only accepted him on Neil's sufferance. Perhaps he's done them an injustice; them, and himself, too. But he's learned to be wary of people. His experiences at Balincrest taught him that, and it's a lesson he's not likely to forget.

 

"I wish," Knox eventually says, and even then he speaks so quietly that Todd has to strain to hear him. "I wish we didn't have to go back. I wish we didn't have to spend our whole lives pretending – living the lives that other people think we should live. Get good grades, be a doctor, be a lawyer, be a banker – make good money, marry the girl of your dreams, have perfect kids and start it all over again – what does any of it _mean? _Doesn't it ever change, doesn't anyone ever ask, look, try to see if there's anything more?" He holds up the crumpled paper in his hand. "_Poetry._ You think, you read it, you think it's got all the answers, it tells you everything you ever needed to know, but in the end you can't change, you can't get away from – you're following in your fathers' footsteps, and they won't let you step off the damn path …"

 

Todd understands; hasn't he felt the same, all his life? It's part of what sets him aside, makes him different. But there's always the question: even if you could run away from the destiny your parents, society, what they plan for you – where is there to run _to? _And so he asks, "If you could? If you could step off the path – where would you go, what would you do?"

 

And Knox laughs, a sound too harsh and bitter for a boy of seventeen, and he says, "Damned if I know, Todd. All I know is, I can see my future lying straight ahead of me, and already I hate every minute of it. But I don't know what I can do to stop it happening."

 

Todd waits. He can feel, in the air, in his bones, the balance shifting. He knows that, any moment now, Knox is going to break, to spill his guts, let out whatever it is that he's been holding in all this time. Maybe Todd ought to do something to stop it happening; say something, turn it aside, diffuse the tension. But he doesn't. He wants to know. _Needs _to. Because he thinks (and he's crazy to even imagine it, he knows that: _Chris,_ he reminds himself, _the most beautiful girl in the world_) – he thinks he recognises something in Knox's eyes, something hidden, deep and dark, perhaps so deep that even Knox doesn't fully acknowledge it.

 

Todd wants to know. He waits.

 

But it seems that's all there's going to be. The moment passes; Knox shifts, stretches, touches his head again ("Ow!"), and says, "What time you got?"

 

Not sure whether he's relieved or disappointed, Todd checks his wristwatch. The numerals are unreadable in the dimness; he says so. Knox says, "M'm," and starts to climb to his feet. "We ought to get back, I guess – "

 

\- and Todd doesn't know what happens then, if Knox tripped, or a stone turned under his foot, or what; all he knows is that the other boy's suddenly flailing, falling, and Todd jumps forward and catches him, one hand on his chest, the other tight around his upper arm, and he drags him upright but the ground underfoot is so uneven that both of them stagger and somehow end up chest pressed against chest, arms around one another's shoulders, their faces only inches apart, and Todd thinks, "_Carpe _fucking _diem!_" and he closes that tiny, tiny, gap, and catches Knox's mouth with his own. And it's soft, so soft, and sweet and warm, full of all the promise and passion that Todd could have hoped for, and he presses in harder, feeling the sharpness of a tooth snag against his lip and tasting blood, not caring, because Knox is breathing again (he thinks they both stopped for a moment, there) and has not pulled away in horror and disgust but is kissing him back, not just kissing, _devouring,_ as though he were starving and Todd were a banquet, drowning and Todd were his only hope of oxygen and who knew, who could have known or guessed that Knox, _Knox,_ was what he wanted, what he needed all along, _Knox _with his terrible poetry and his beautiful blonde dream-girl and fuck _her,_ she's not here and Todd is, she'll never know this, never have this (his hands are fumbling, now, at Knox's belt) and he wonders if Knox can tell he's never done this, only imagined it, he wonders if Knox knows what he's doing because maybe one of them should have some idea or then again, no, it doesn't matter, they'll figure it out, and in any case maybe Knox _does _know because, oh, god, oh. My. _God …_

 

They've ended up on the floor, somehow, still kissing, licking and biting, hands searching, seeking, tearing impatiently at clothing, scrabbling and clutching at bare skin, Knox above him suddenly, his weight bearing down on him and Todd pants out his name, _Knox, Knox _and doesn't care how ridiculous it sounds, doesn't care about anything at all except for the pressure that's building up inside of him, rising, swelling, cresting and then, and then …

 

Knox collapses onto his chest, a dead weight, and Todd somehow manages to lift his arms, so heavy, _leaden,_ he thinks, _leaden _is a good word, and wraps them tightly around the other boy, dragging him close as though he could absorb him into his skin. _This,_ he thinks, _this is what I want to run to,_ and he knows, then, that he can never go back, never live the ordinary, the expected, the life predestined for him; whatever it costs him, whatever obstacles the world throws his way, _this _is what he needs, what he must have. He doesn't know how, but he'll find a way. Of that, he's sure, as sure as he has ever been of anything.

 

He doesn't know how long they lie there, sweat cooling and pooling between their bodies so that when, at last, they draw apart there's an audible squelching noise that is less than perfectly romantic but makes them both laugh and dispels whatever tension might otherwise have threatened. He thinks he might have lain there forever, in spite of the rocks digging into his back. But the world is still out there, waiting for them, with all its ugly threats and lies. It seems, for the moment, measurably less unbearable. When Knox, standing to tuck his shirt in, turns back to smile at him, reaches out his hand to pull him to his feet, catches his mouth in another slow, soft, lingering kiss, he thinks that perhaps, after all, the world's not such a bad place.

 

He's full of questions, but leaves it to Knox to explain; he's not going to press. And, as they gather up jackets and step back out into the light, Knox does, in fact, say quietly, "She really is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, you know. If I couldn't be in love with Chris …"

 

Long silence. Todd reaches out hesitantly (they're out in the open now; they have to be careful) and cups a hand lightly around Knox's neck. This, he understands. "If you couldn't be in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, then you'd _know _you were a queer?"

 

Knox sighs. "You know." And, of course, Todd does know. "I figured, hey, it's not the first compromise my family's made. You remember when we were experimenting, using our left hands for a day? Remember how I was pretty good at it?"

 

"You're left-handed?" Todd guesses, and Knox nods.

 

"They always made me use my right hand, right from when I was a little kid – any time I'd forget and try it the other way, I'd get in so much trouble. It really messed me up, too, back then – it took me twice as long to learn to write as everyone else in my class, and I used to stammer – " He smiles affectionately at Todd. "As bad as you. Worse, maybe. They used to think I was retarded – I'd hear them whispering about it at night, and I spent so much time seeing doctors, and shrinks, except I wasn't supposed to know they were shrinks …" He shrugs it away. "Still, that's nothing. My family used to be Jewish, you know." He leaves that hanging, and Todd staring after him, open-mouthed, as he walks on.

 

He never does get an answer to that one, and, by the time they've passed the halfway mark back home, his mind's busy worrying at another very pressing problem, to wit: the rumpled, damp and sticky state of his clothing (Knox's too; Knox is actually in rather worse condition, and that's entirely Todd's fault, and if he weren't so concerned about how to get back in school and get his clothes into the laundry without attracting comment, he might find it in himself to feel bad about that). He shoves his hands into his pockets and tries, discreetly, to tug fabric away from skin in the hope that that might help matters. It doesn't.

 

There's a stream that runs through the woods, about half a mile beyond the Welton grounds. Todd stops on its edge and considers it. Knox pulls up beside him, glances at him sidelong, and his mouth crooks.

 

"What do you say?" he asks. "You fall in and I rescue you? Or would you prefer it the other way round?"

 

Todd takes a deep breath. "It's going to be freezing," he protests. "And I can't swim – _Knox!_" And he's up to his neck in ice water, floundering and gasping, still feeling the pressure of his so-called friend's hand in the small of his back where he has ruthlessly ("Well, that settles it!") pushed him in. He loses his footing, goes completely under for one moment that feels like an eternity of gut-numbing panic, breaks the surface to see an arc overhead, hear a splash, and he knows that Knox has done the thing properly and dived to his rescue. Then there's an arm around his neck and he's being towed toward the bank, the water's only up to his knees, then his ankles, and he's collapsing onto the damp, cold, muddy grass. He glares upward.

 

"I hate you," he announces, and Knox sniggers unkindly.

 

"Yeah," he agrees amiably, and flops down on the ground next to Todd. "Looks like it." He cocks his head, shakes back the damp flop of fringe. "You look like you need mouth-to-mouth, to me." He leans closer, and Todd tells himself that yes, it's quite possible that he really is a little short of breath, but wasn't this how they got in this mess in the first place? And then he realises that he doesn't much care. On either count.

 

They run into McAllister somewhere about midway across the playing field, and stammer out their half-thought-out excuses, lame to begin with and lamer still in the face of his glower. He collars them, hauls them into the showers, the infirmary (there's blood crusted in Knox's hair, and the nurse tuts fiercely at them) and, finally, their dorm rooms, lecturing incessantly the while. Todd lets the words wash around him; none of the words are the ones he fears. Nobody suspects. They're safe. This time.

 

_ This time._ As if there would ever be another.

 

***

 

And so now there's another rule, one that applies equally to Welton in general and the Dead Poets Society in particular. It's a less than inclusive rule – only Knox and Todd are aware of its existence – but none the less (all the more) stringent for that.

 

_ It never happened_.

 

It never happened.

 

They will never speak of it. They will learn, eventually, once again to meet each other's eyes and not need to look away; learn not to look up in expectation each time one of them enters a room, learn how to bear it when one of them leaves.

 

_ It never happened. _

 

There will be no stolen kisses, hot, sweet, greedy, reckless, in shadowed corridors or darkened hallways. Knox will never hold Todd against his heart, press hungry lips against his throat, feel his pulse quicken and stutter to echo the throbbing of his own wild blood. Todd will never drag Knox into a remote supply cupboard, drop to his knees, take him into his mouth, open his throat and swallow him whole; never, afterward, rest his cheek against Knox's thigh, feel Knox's hand tangling in his hair, impossibly tender.

 

Knox will pursue his dream girl single-mindedly, intense, quixotic, almost obsessive (Todd will meet her one day and will almost laugh when he sees her vapid, shallow prettiness, her blank, stupid eyes; he'll think, spitefully, _serve him right!,_ and then he will retreat into the boys' bathroom and rest his head against a cold, tiled wall and fight back tears); Todd himself will simply become quieter than ever, slip more and more into a twilight world of his own devising. His own parents forgot him long ago, but now he will seem invisible, passed over in class, ignored in the common room. Even Neil will sometimes forget he exists.

 

Rules (ask any boy at Welton) are made to be broken. But so, in this sorry world, are hearts.

 

But none of this really matters. The days of the Dead Poets Society are numbered, as they all knew from the start that they had to be, and so (although this no-one realises yet) are Welton's. There's tragedy just around the corner, waiting quietly, patiently, for its chance to strike, and after that, then nothing will ever be the same again.

 

***

 

Todd returns to the cave, the day before Welton closes its doors forever. He's one of a scant handful of pupils remaining; his parents didn't care enough to fetch him away. (Knox has gone; Knox was one of the first to go. It's Knox's father, in large part, who's responsible for Welton's demise, Knox's and Charlie Dalton's.) He sits there, in the dark and the cold, for an hour; watches the shadows on the wall, contemplates their reality. He wonders if the shadow-world is any more bearable than this, his own. He wonders if Neil, now, lives among those shadows; if he could, at last, be happy there. If there could be happiness there, also, for him.

 

Finally, so cold he can barely move, he drags himself up and stumbles on numb feet to the entrance; stops there and takes a last look back at this place that he'll never see again (only in dreams; always, in his dreams), that once meant to him so very much. Something catches his eye: something out of place, light against the darkness of the mud and the rocks. He kneels, and scoops it up.

 

Paper. A scrap of paper, torn from a Welton notebook. Crumpled, torn and dirty; he holds it like a treasure, and his fingers tremble, uncreasing it, fumbling it open against the wall.

 

He knows Knox's writing. But the ink has run. Whatever message there might once have been is lost forever now.

 

Todd lets it fall, and turns away.

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
